


Marked

by sometimeseffable



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Kisses, Based on the art by Whiteley Foster, Branding, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Paris 1793, mild mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeseffable/pseuds/sometimeseffable
Summary: Crowley wakes up a week after crepes, disoriented, and with two unhappy demons in the room. After all, his lot don't send rude notes.It's a bit worse than that.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 107





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



_ London, 1793  _

Crowley groaned as reality filtered back to him in blurry fragments. A million drumbeats pounded dully in his head; he smacked his lips, tasting iron and the cotton-dry feel of a few days’ unconsciousness. He tried bringing a hand to his aching skull, to no avail. They were twisted behind his back, affixed firmly to the chair that spread him in an uncomfortable, loose legged sprawl. 

_ Fuck,  _ he felt awful.

“Look who’s  _ finally  _ awake,” an all-too familiar voice rasped, slithering up Crowley’s spine, “Welcome to the land of the living, Crawley.”

“ _ Hastur,”  _ Crowley groaned. He squinted up at his colleague in the low light through his raging headache. They were in a dark, dank room, lit only by a few scattered torches and a small fire burning in a pit. The skin above his left eyebrow pulled with a sting, hair matted to his temple with tacky blood. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Hastur smirked. A cold voice slithered out from the shadows behind him. 

“The honor is all mine, I believe.”

Another demon stepped into the flickering torchlight. His earthly corporation was marginally better than Hastur’s, with lank black hair pulled back from his deathly pale skin and only a few maggots worming their way through a blood red jacket. Eyes black as coal flickered with the flame’s reflection. Very rarely did he leave his office in the Fifth Circle; to see him topside was...unprecedented. 

Crowley went cold. A very clear memory of dining on crepes in Paris nudged insistently at the back of his mind. He attempted a weak smile nevertheless. 

“Lord Mephistopheles,” he acknowledged politely, “Been a while. How’ve you been?”

The demon of endless torments picked disinterestedly at a dark splotch on his coat. “Pleasantries will get you nowhere, Crowley. We have some questions.”

“Ah. Questions that required…?” Crowley glanced down and back up with a raised brow, indicating his current state of being firmly attached to the chair. 

“We believe so, yes.” The demon crossed his arms. His smile was cold and sharp. “What were you doing with the angel?”

Ice dripped down Crowley’s spine.  _ They know _ , he thought, mind racing. Dread settled in his stomach like a lead ball. Aziraphale’s apple-cheeked smile and fussy frills swam in his vision.  _ I suppose I should say thank-you _ , he’d said, practically glowing, as if the demon’s very  _ presence  _ in the cell wasn’t damning enough. 

Nearly 6,000 years of growing comradery flashed before his eyes. They knew, and it was all over. 

He was doomed.

Heart pounding, he feigned innocence. It was all he could do. “What angel?”

A sudden blow from his left knocked Crowley’s head onto his right shoulder, pain blooming like a bruise on his temple. 

“Don’t play stupid, snake,” Hastur snarled, “We saw you!”

Crowley flexed his jaw, wincing. “I dunno what you  _ think  _ you saw, but I’ve been nothing if not by the book. Perhaps there’s been some sort of miscommunication.”

Another blow caught him on the cheek, knocking the breath out of him. Crowley grit his teeth to hold back the groan.

“Try again. This time make it believable.” Mephistopheles looked almost bored with it all. 

“Look, Mephestos - can I call you - ?“

“No.”

“Good choice. Listen - you don’t understand what I’m trying to do here. It’s - it’s big. I’ve got something  _ really  _ good cooking, a-and I wanted it to be a surprise! You have to trust me on this.”

Mephistopheles sighed. “Unfortunately, you know demons and trust don’t mix well. I think someone requires a lesson on workplace allegiance.”

The demon jerked his chin. Hastur bared his teeth in a rotted, oil-sheen facsimile of a smile. He hefted a long rod from its place in the coal fire with both hands. The end twisted into a horrifyingly familiar symbol - the Leviathan Cross - and trembled faintly with its own demonic presence. Stygian Iron was no laughing matter; to smelt weapons with it took eons. Injuries from mortal implements took seconds to heal, but this? This was the stuff of terrified whispers over breakroom coffee. 

The cross glowed whitehot like a sun.

Any remaining calm evaporated on the spot. Crowley eyed the brand like it were a jar of holy water. 

Mephistopheles circled the chair like an eel glided around its dinner. A hand struck out to clutch at Crowley’s shirt and tore the fabric in one smooth motion, baring the smooth, pale skin of his shoulder to the damp air. Blood pounded in his ears as Hastur advanced. Crowley twisted and struggled against his bonds.

“You’re making a mistake!” he yelled, wriggling violently as the cross drew nearer. “You don’t understand!”

“Shut it,  _ snake!”  _ Oh, Hastur was  _ loving  _ this. 

Burning heat of near-molten metal radiated centimetres away from his skin. Desperate, Crowley pulled his final trump card.

“ _ I’m tempting him!” _

He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the sizzling kiss of iron, but it never came. One eye cracked open, sclera shot all the way through with yellow. Mephistopheles had raised one hand to halt Hastur’s advance. A curious eyebrow had raised itself.

“You’re... _ tempting  _ an  _ angel? _ ”

“Yes.” Crowley took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and cocked his head in the best show of confident nonchalance he could muster. “The angel in question is Heaven’s only field agent. He is...naïve, to put it mildly. Stupid. Blundering. Easily swayed. I’ve been having him do temptations for me under the guise of a -  _ truce.  _ Companionship, even. Heaven is weak and cruel, and he’s practically  _ begging  _ to help me. Within the next few hundred years, we shall have him.”

“Within the next few hundred years we will have Armageddon,” Hastur sneered, “And then this stupid little plan of yours won’t matter.”

“An excellent point, Lord Hastur,” Crowley simpered through gritted teeth, “Thank you for bringing that up. Like I said. This is Heaven’s  _ only field agent.  _ He will be instrumental in their influence on the antichrist.”

He looked to Mephistopheles for approval. “I know it seems unbelievable - “

“Wildly so, yes.”

“ - but you have to trust me on this. There’s a lot of fine-tuned, er, moving parts to this. You wanted me to think bigger - this is  _ huge _ . Cosmic level tempting. I didn’t mention it to Head Office because I didn’t want anyone poaching my target.” Here he tossed a suspicious glare at Hastur, which was a bit difficult with the swelling on his cheekbone. 

The demon of Wrath paused. He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Very well.”

The ropes came undone. Crowley sighed a breath of relief, rubbing his chafed wrists, knees feeling like jelly after the close call -

Then Mephistopheles nodded once more, and he was forced to his knees. 

“Wh - “

The rest was choked off in a scream. Agony burst from his shoulder, shooting sparks of white-hot fury through his arms, his legs, stealing the breath from his chest and crushing his ribcage. The air smelled of charred bone and muscle. Crowley couldn’t think, the pain was so intense, and he tasted salt and was nearly sick with shame as the brand pressed harder on the once-unmarred skin of his shoulder. 

Time stopped, and not in the good way. It could have been a second, an hour, a  _ year.  _ He couldn’t tell. The brand let up eventually, and Crowley collapsed to the cool stone floor, gasping in pathetic sobs as Hastur snickered behind him. 

“You were still sloppy. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Footsteps echoed down the hall as the demons took their leave. Crowley lay limp on the ground for a long, long time, head spinning. 

_ At least we’re safe,  _ he thought mutedly,  _ Safe for now. _

He would get up after a few days and stumble back to his new flat in Mayfair. The wound would be dressed, prompting another round of retching and fresh tears, a terrible pit in his stomach at the memory of it all. Tossing Aziraphale under the metaphorical carriage like that would leave a tight lump in his throat that refused to dissipate. Crowley would throw the curtains closed and crawl into bed, ripped clothing and all, and fall into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep. 

* * *

_ London, 2019 _

Cool fingers traced featherlight against the puckered skin on his back. Crowley tensed; reflex. No one had ever touched him there before. Few people had touched him anywhere, really. Not before today. Certainly not with the  _ kindness  _ lapping at his very soul like waves breaking on the shore. 

“My poor darling,” Aziraphale murmured. From their position, laid side by side on Crowley’s plush bed, the angel’s wide, watery blue eyes were mere inches from his own. Grief saturated his voice. 

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to have such pity directed at him. 

“Could’ve been worse,” he croaked, “They were ready to discorporate me, I think. Close call there.”

“Still. There I was, trolloping about England, thinking you were ignoring me when all that time you were - were - “

“Shh. No use worrying over it now.” Crowley cut the thought of with a kiss - sweet, slow, and unhurried. The novelty of it hadn’t worn off; he hoped it never would. They had the time for such things, now. They had all the time in the world.

And time was exactly the sort of thing Crowley wanted while in bed with an angel. That was the most miraculous thing - they were in bed, in love, alive and whole after the horrors of the past week. They had gone to bed wine-warm and flustered the night before, having imbibed a touch too much champagne at the Ritz (and then some wine in the shop to go with their heartsick confessions, and brandy afterwards to celebrate). Crowley had awoken in the warm circle of Aziraphale’s arms, the angel’s fingers questing lightly over marked skin.

Aziraphale propped his head up on his palm. He was dressed only in his pants and a half-unbuttoned shirt. It was a good look on him, Crowley thought, risking laying his palm on a bare thigh. His reward was a shiver, as well as a reproachful look that said,  _ You won’t tempt me into dropping this, sneaky serpent.  _

“I wish you’d have told me.”

Crowley gave a one shouldered shrug. His eyes flicked down to watch the idle finger tracing delicate whorls on milkpale skin. “Wasn’t much to tell. ‘Oh, by the way, remember when we had crepes after I rescued you in France? I sold you out and insulted you to some demons who branded me a week later and then passed out for a century. Crazy, huh? Let’s get dinner, I'm starved.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. Roll over.”

Sighing, Crowley did as he was told. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

The angel did not answer. Soft curls brushed the nape of the demon’s neck as Aziraphale leant his forward on the knob of his spine. “Does it hurt terribly?”

“A little,” Crowley admitted, remembering burning heat and the sick smell of charred flesh, “Stygian Iron is mean stuff. ‘S meant to hurt always, but you get used to it after a while.”

Aziraphale gave a little hum. An electric current ran down Crowley’s spine as kiss pressed soft against where the mark ended. Then another, and another, and a small sigh escaped his chest as lips traced the mark in its entirety. Like ice drawing out the worst of a venomous sting, the lingering pain leached from his skin with each kiss until there was nothing left. 

“Angel…”

“There, now,” Aziraphale murmured, pleased with the results. “Just needed a little love, that’s all. It’s not gone entirely but - oh, perhaps you should see for yourself.”

Crowley craned his neck to glimpse his back in the mirror. Where angry red skin had marred his shoulder blade, there now lay a smattering of mocha colored freckles that looked vaguely like a Leviathan Cross. 

Suddenly his eyes felt rather wet. 

“Did’you,” he said. Cleared his throat around the thick lump that’d formed. “Did’you know some humans believe the Leviathan Cross symbolizes balance in nature? Downstairs hated when that...that whole Satanic Bible thing went down. Never really captured the essence of the Head Boss himself, if you know what I mean.”

“Mm. Anton LaVey, yes?” Aziraphale brushed another kiss to the top of his shoulder, the ghost of a smile lingering there, “A true nutter, if I’m honest. However, if I’m not mistaken, he wanted it to refer to humans being their own center of truth and freedom. Or at least, the humans who bought his books thought of it that way.”

Crowley laughed, both at Aziraphale’s poking fun at a materialistic satanist and a little at the idea of symbols not really meaning a damn thing to begin with. Armageddon had come and gone; the world turned upside-down and inside-out. He twisted and caught his angel about the waist, guiding them both back into the downy covers. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, burying his face in Aziraphale’s soft curls, “Freedom.”

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the absolutely wonderful piece by Whiteley Foster on [tumblr](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the) and immediately knew I wanted to write something for it! Something about Crowley's expression just...gives me the feels y'all.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://sometimeseffable.tumblr.com/) for more quarantine fandom content!


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